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ORLEY FARM
practice for conjugal duties, and in spite of her failing eyes
she resolved to do her duty. “Never mind them, Mary,” said
she. “I remember now that you were doing your own before
dinner.”
“Of course I was,” said Mary sulkily. “And as for practice,
I don’t suppose he’ll want me to do more of that than anything else.”
“Well, dear, put them by.” And Miss Snow did put them by,
resuming Rasselas as she did so. Who darned the stockings of
Rasselas and felt that the buttons were tight on his shirts?
What a happy valley must it have been if a bride expectant
were free from all such cares as these!
“I suppose, Mary, it will be some time in the spring of next
year.” Mrs. Thomas was not reading, and therefore a little conversation from time to time was to her a solace.
“What will be, Mrs. Thomas?”
“Why, the marriage.”
“I suppose it will. He told father it should be early in 18 — ,
and I shall be past twenty then.”
“I wonder where you’ll go to live.”
“I don’t know. He has never said anything about that.”
“I suppose not; but I’m sure it will be a long way away from
Peckham.” In answer to this Mary said nothing, but could not
help wishing that it might be so. Peckham to her had not been
a place bright with happiness, although she had become in so
marked a way a child of good fortune. And then, moreover, she
had a deep care on her mind with which the streets and houses and pathways of Peckham were closely connected. It would
be very expedient that she should go far, far away from Peck-
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ham when she had become, in actual fact, the very wife of Felix
Graham.
“Miss Mary,” whispered the red-armed maid of all work,
creeping up to Mary’s bedroom door, when they had all retired
for the night, and whispering through the chink. “Miss Mary.
I’ve somethink to say.” And Mary opened the door. “I’ve got
a letter from him;” and the maid of all work absolutely produced a little note enclosed in a green envelope.
“Sarah, I told you not,” said Mary, looking very stern and
hesitating with her finger whether or no she would take
the letter.
“But he did so beg and pray. Besides, miss, as he says hisself
he must have his answer. Any gen’leman, he says, ‘as a right to
a answer. And if you’d a seed him yourself I’m sure you’d have
took it. He did look so nice with a blue and gold hankercher
round his neck. He was a-going to the the-a-tre he said.”
“And who was going with him, Sarah?”
“Oh, no one. Only his mamma and sister, and them
sort. He’s all right — he is.” And then Mary Snow did take
the letter.
“And I’ll come for the answer when you’re settling the room
after breakfast to-morrow?” said the girl.
“No; I don’t know. I sha’n’t send any answer at all. But, Sarah, for heaven’s sake, do not say a word about it!”
“Who, I? Laws love you, miss. I wouldn’t; — not for worlds of
gold.” And then Mary was left alone to read a second letter
from a second suitor.
“Angel of light!” it began, “but cold as your own fair name.”
Poor Mary thought it was very nice and very sweet, and though
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she was so much afraid of it that she almost wished it away, yet
she read it a score of times. Stolen pleasures always are sweet.
She had not cared to read those two lines from her own betrothed lord above once, or at the most twice; and yet they had
been written by a good man, — a man superlatively good to
her, and written too with considerable pain.
The Angel of Light.
She sat down all trembling to think of what she was doing;
and then, as she thought, she read the letter again. “Angel of
light! but cold as your own fair name.” Alas, alas! it was very
sweet to her!
CHAPTER XXXIV
MR. FURNIVAL LOOKS FOR
ASSISTANCE
“And you think that nothing can be done down there?”
said Mr. Furnival to his clerk, immediately after the return of
Mr. Crabwitz from Hamworth to London.
“Nothing at all, sir,” said Mr. Crabwitz, with laconic significance.
“Well; I dare say not. If the matter could have been arranged at a reasonable cost, without annoyance to my friend
Lady Mason, I should have been glad; but, on the whole, it will
perhaps be better that the law should take its course. She will
suffer a good deal, but she will be the safer for it afterwards.”
“Mr. Furnival, I went so far as to offer a thousand pounds!”
“A thousand pounds! Then they’ll think we’re afraid of
them.”
“Not a bit more than they did before. Though I offered
the money, he doesn’t know the least that the offer came from
our side. But I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Furnival — . I suppose
I may speak my mind.”
“Oh, yes! But remember this, Crabwitz; Lady Mason is no
more in danger of losing the property than you are. It is a most
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vexatious thing, but there can be no doubt as to what the result will be.”
“Well, Mr. Furnival, — I don’t know.”
“In such matters, I am tolerably well able to form
an opinion.”
“Oh, certainly!”
“And that’s my opinion. Now I shall be very glad to hear
yours.”
“My opinion is this, Mr. Furnival, that Sir Joseph never
made that codicil.”
“And what makes you think so?”
“The whole course of the evidence. It’s quite clear there was
another deed executed that day, and witnessed by Bolster and
Kenneby. Had there been two documents for them to witness,
they would have remembered it so soon after the occurrence.”
“Well, Crabwitz, I differ from you, — differ from you in
toto. But keep your opinion to yourself, that’s all. I’ve no doubt
you did the best for us you could down at Hamworth, and I’m
much obliged to you. You’ll find we’ve got our hands quite full
again, — almost too full.” Then he turned round to his table,
and to the papers upon it; whereupon, Crabwitz took the hint,
and left the room.
But when he had gone, Mr. Furnival again raised his eyes
from the papers on the table, and leaning back in his chair,
gave himself up to further consideration of the Orley Farm
case. Crabwitz he knew was a sharp, clever man, and now
the opinion formed by Crabwitz, after having seen this Hamworth attorney, tallied with his own opinion. Yes; it was his
own opinion. He had never said as much, even to himself, with
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
those inward words which a man uses when he assures himself of the result of his own thoughts; but he was aware that it
was his own opinion. In his heart of hearts, he did believe that
that codicil had been fraudulently manufactured by his friend
and client, Lady Mason.
Under these circumstances, what should he do? He had
the handle of his pen between his teeth, as was his habit when
he was thinking, and tried to bring himself to some permanent resolution.
How beautiful had she looked while she stood in Sir Peregrine’s library, leaning on the old man’s arm — how beautiful and how innocent! That was the form which his thoughts
chiefly took. And then she had given him her hand, and he
still felt the soft silken touch of her cool fingers. He would not
be a man if he could desert a woman in such a strait. And such
a woman! If even guilty, had she not expiated her guilt by deep
sorrow? And then he thought of Mr. Mason of Groby Park; and
he thought of Sir Peregrine’s strong conviction, and of Judge
Staveley’s belief; and he thought also of the strong hold which
public opinion and twenty years of possession would still
give to the cause he favoured. He would still bring her through!
Yes; in spite of her guilt, if she were guilty; on the strength of
her innocency, if she were innocent; but on account of her
beauty, and soft hand, and deep liquid eye. So at least he would
have owned, could he have been honest enough to tell himself
the whole truth.
But he must prepare himself for the battle in earnest. It was
not as though he had been briefed in this case, and had merely to perform the duty for which he had been hired. He was to
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undertake the whole legal management of the affair. He must
settle what attorney should have the matter in hand, and instruct that attorney how to reinstruct him, and how to reinstruct those other barristers who must necessarily be employed
on the defence, in a case of such magnitude. He did not yet
know under what form the attack would be made; but he was
nearly certain that it would be done in the shape of a criminal
charge. He hoped that it might take the direct form of an accusation of forgery. The stronger and more venomous the charge
made, the stronger also would be public opinion in favour of
the accused, and the greater the chance of an acquittal. But
if she were to be found guilty on any charge, it would matter
little on what. Any such verdict of guilty would be utter ruin
and obliteration of her existence.
He must consult with some one, and at last he made up his
mind to go to his very old friend, Mr. Chaffanbrass. Mr. Chaffanbrass was safe, and he might speak out his mind to him
without fear of damaging the cause. Not that he could bring
himself to speak out his real mind, even to Mr. Chaffanbrass.
He would so speak that Mr. Chaffanbrass should clearly understand him; but still, not even to his ears, would he say that
he really believed Lady Mason to have been guilty. How would
it be possible that he should feign before a jury his assured,
nay, his indignant conviction of his client’s innocence, if he
had ever whispered to any one his conviction of her guilt?
On that same afternoon he sent to make an appointment
with Mr. Chaffanbrass, and immediately after breakfast, on
the following morning, had himself taken to that gentleman’s
chambers. The chambers of this great guardian of the inno-
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ANTHONY TROLLOPE
cence — or rather not-guiltiness of the public — were not in
any so-named inn, but consisted of two gloomy, dark, panelled rooms in Ely Place. The course of our story, however,
will not cause us to make many visits to Ely Place, and any
closer description of them may be spared. I have said that Mr.
Chaffanbrass and Mr. Furnival were very old friends. So they
were. They had known each other for more than thirty years,
and each knew the whole history of the other’s rise and progress in the profession; but any results of their friendship at
present were but scanty. They might meet each other in
the streets, perhaps, once in the year; and occasionally — but
very seldom — might be brought together on subjects connected with their profession; as was the case when they travelled together down to Birmingham. As to meeting in each
other’s houses, or coming together for the sake of the friendship which existed, — the idea of doing so never entered
the head of either of them.
All the world knows Mr. Chaffanbrass — either by sight
or by reputation. Those who have been happy enough to see
the face and gait of the man as, in years now gone, he used to
lord it at the Old Bailey, may not have thought much of
the privilege which was theirs. But to those who have only
read of him, and know of his deeds simply by their triumphs,
he was a man very famous and worthy to be seen. “Look; that’s
Chaffanbrass. It was he who cross-examined — — at the Old
Bailey, and sent him howling out of London, banished for ever
into the wilderness.” “Where, where? Is that Chaffanbrass?
What a dirty little man!”
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To this dirty little man in Ely Place, Mr. Furnival now
went in his difficulty. Mr. Furnival might feel himself sufficient to secure the acquittal of an innocent person, or
even of a guilty person, under ordinary circumstances; but
if any man in England could secure the acquittal of a guilty
person under extraordinary circumstances, it would be Mr.
Chaffanbrass. This had been his special line of work for
the last thirty years.
Mr. Chaffanbrass was a dirty little man; and when seen
without his gown and wig, might at a first glance be thought
insignificant. But he knew well how to hold his own in
the world, and could maintain his opinion, unshaken, against
all the judges in the land. “Well, Furnival, and what can I do
for you?” he said, as soon as the member for the Essex Marshes
was seated opposite to him. “It isn’t often that the light of your
countenance shines so far east as this. Somebody must be in
trouble, I suppose?”
“Somebody is in trouble,” said Mr. Furnival; and then he
began to tell his story. Mr. Chaffanbrass listened almost in silence throughout. Now and then he asked a question by a word
or two, expressing no opinion whatever as he did so; but he
was satisfied to leave the talking altogether in the hands of his
visitor till the whole tale was told. “Ah,” he said then, “a clever
woman!”
“An uncommonly sweet creature too,” said Mr. Furnival.
“I dare say,” said Mr. Chaffanbrass; and then there was
a pause.
“And what can I do for you?” said Mr. Chaffanbrass.
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“In the first place I should be very glad to have your advice;
and then — . Of course I must lead in defending her, — unless it were well that I should put the case altogether in your
hands.”
“Oh no! don’t think of that. I couldn’t give the time to it. My
heart is not in it, as yours is. Where will it be?”
“At Alston, I suppose.”
“At the Spring assizes. That will be — . Let me see; about
the 10th of March.”
“I should think we might get it postponed till the summer.
Round is not at all hot about it.”
“Should we gain anything by that? If a prisoner be innocent why torment him by delay. He is tolerably sure of escape.
If he be guilty, extension of time only brings out the facts
the clearer. As far as my experience goes, the sooner a man is
tried the better, — always.”
“And you would consent to hold a brief?”
“Under you? Well; yes. I don’t mind it at Alston. Anything to oblige an old friend. I never was proud, you know.”
“And what do you think about it, Chaffanbrass?”
“Ah! that’s the question.”
“She must be pulled through. Twenty years of possession!
Think of that.”
“That’s what Mason, the man down in Yorkshire, is thinking of. There’s no doubt of course about that partnership
deed?”
“I fear not. Round would not go on with it if that were not
all true.”
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